Fairmeade
by N. Y. Smith
Summary: Choices are so much easier when they're in the abstract. SheppardWeir AU


Title: Fairmeade

Author: N. Y. Smith

Date completed: March 27, 2005

Rating: Some adult situations, Teens and up

Genre: Angst, Babyfic

Summary: Choices seem easy when they're in the abstract.

Disclaimer: Too old to play with dolls so I'll play with someone else's characters. No copyright infringement intended.

**Chapter 1**

The air was chill as their feet touched the stone platform, not as cold as the trip through the wormhole, but bracing, nonetheless. They were immediately confronted with a carved stone monument, which flanked the DHD at the foot of the gate platform.

"That looks like a cross, sir," Lieutenant Aiden Ford puzzled.

"A Celtic Cross," Corporal Keen replied, "my grandmother was Scottish," he replied to the raised eyebrows. "Don't recognize the writing, though. Wonder what this is?"

Major John Sheppard eyed the monument, the packed-gravel road before them and the stone-housed settlement less than one click away. "Let's ask someone when we get to town," he strode down the stone path.

Leaning against the railing of the balcony that overlooked the gateroom, Doctor Elizabeth Weir swallowed hard, the bile rising quickly as the wormhole closed. She was well-accustomed to the queasy feeling of dread that accompanied the departure of John Sheppard through the stargate. Upon their arrival in Atlantis, the feeling had been a mere unease over the possible loss of her military commander. But, as those first stirring of friendship had ripened into a physical relationship, the simple unease had moldered into full-blown fear every time he disappeared into the shimmer of blue. She swallowed back the fear, but the bile prevailed and she bolted for her office–and the private restroom attached to itand retched the coffee and toast she had nibbled while he wolfed down a breakfast that would have fed a small family of Athosians. Wiping her face, rinsing her mouth, she staggered to her desk, her eyes flicking to the timepiece, her agile mind calculating the hours until _he_ would return.

The town was a mix of small and large slate-roofed houses, shops and hostels on the corners, all set out like spokes of a wheel around a large stone building.

"It looks like a church, sir," Ford guessed.

"Would those be cars?" Corporal Keen waved toward the small, wheeled wagons–pulling animals nowhere in sight.

From behind them, a woman and child scurried past and up the steps into the building with little more than a passing glance. After a moment, a ruddy-faced man in dark robes and a bright sash descended the stairs and strode toward them. His words sounded like a growl but his hand was raised in greeting.

"I'm Major John Sheppard," he held forth his hand, "and . . ."

"Anglish," the man, whose hair was as red as his complexion, said excitedly, then beckoned them to follow. Their boots crunched in the stone streets but made near-silent footfalls on the smooth steps. Sheppard balked, at first, at following the man through the tall metal doors but a scent, ancient and familiar, wafted past him, carrying with it words from his earliest memory, "_In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancte."_

To which the crowd gathered responded, "Amen."

An older woman joined them. She had a creamy complexion but the same titian hair–although hers was threaded with white that gleamed against a starched gray wimple. She, too, wore dark robes with a bright sash–different from the gentleman and, after a short conversation of pleasant-sounding growls with their guide she raised her hand in the same greeting, but her voice was a burry whisper. "Welcome, travelers, to the Kirk of Fairmeade. I am Mother Glynna M'Gough."

"Major John Sheppard." He matched his volume to hers.

"Lieutenant Aiden Ford."

"Corporal Joshua Keen."

"You are just in time for Holy Mass. Would you join us? Our congregation is open to all."

John Sheppard's mind listed in that instant a million reasons to decline but the aroma of incense and the comforting cadence of the liturgy caused him to follow his soul. "Thank you."

Unsnapping his weapon from its lanyard but keeping it at the ready in his left hand, and waiting for his team to do the same, he stepped into the aisle, genuflecting for the first time in many years before standing behind the last worshipers. The soldier in him protested, cited the tactical disadvantage–even the possible insult–of participating in a religious ceremony on a foreign planet. But the boy in him–terrified and repulsed at the horrors he had seen and the many, many sins he had commttedlonged for the comfort of the liturgy and the solace of the sacraments. Decades and galaxies away from his last absolution, he followed the other worshipers up the aisle, each footfall a sin confessed so that, head bowed before the priest, he accepted the Elements with an unabsolved, but penitent, heart. Tears welled in his eyes at the Benediction, but he wiped them away lest his team should see them.

"Come, travelers," the nun swept her hand toward the door. "Now that we've fed your souls, we should feed your bodies."

"Well, actually, ma'am," Sheppard began, "Mother," he corrected himself, "we're here to see whoever's in charge."

"Then you're in luck," she smiled, "he dines with us, as well."

Lifting the front of her robes a hand's-width from the ground, she scurried across the road to a tall house, pausing at the door, beckoning that they follow.

"I guess we eat," Sheppard said wryly.

"She sounds like Beckett," Ford grinned.

"Let's hope she doesn't cook like him," Keen mumbled.

Three hours and forty-six minutes after it had fallen dark, Elizabeth Weir felt the tremor of the stargate coming back to life. As she neared the gateroom from her office, a boisterous but miserably off-key rendition of "How Are Things in Glocca Morra?" bent her ears. As she slid into the balcony rail she grinned. She'd know that voice anywhere. Their eyes met and he smiled.

"It's Brigadoon, lads and lassies," He punctuated the greeting with a jaunty little salute to the entire room. "Where they speak something that sounds like bad indigestion with a charming lilt and Latin–fourth-century Latin."

"But they can cook, ma'am," Ford inserted.

"That they can, Lieutenant," the major agreed.

"I look forward to your report in fifteen minutes, Major Sheppard," she struggled to maintain her imperious tone.

"Yes, ma'am," he smiled and strode down the hall. Fifteen minutes later, freshly showered, still slightly damp, John Sheppard paused at Dr. Elizabeth Weir's office door before entering. "I bring you greetings from the citizens of Alba and arrangements for the negotiations." He held out a roll of paper, daub of sealing wax holding it in shape but struggled to maintain his balance when the leader of Atlantis wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. He felt moisture soaking through his shirt and wrapped his arms around her shuddering form. "Hey, I'm okay," he soothed, depositing a kiss on top of her head before bending and placing another one on her cheek.

"I know," she sniffled sheepishly, hiding her blushing face in his shirt again. "I don't know why I'm crying, I just, I, well . . ."

"I missed you, too," he led her over to her desk chair, sat in it and pulled her into his lap. She burrowed her head into his shoulder, relaxing into the warmth of his encircling arms.

"I promised myself I'd never do this," she daubed at her nose.

"Do what?" his thumb circled on her hip.

"Become one of those weepy women whose life came to a halt just because her man was deployed." She wiped away her tears with the backs of her hands, then colored again before burying her face in her palms.

For his part, John Sheppard smiled more widely than he ever had.

"John, I mean, what I meant to say . . ."

"It's okay," he whispered into her hair while pulling her closer. "I am."

She lifted her head, confusion clouding her expression. "Are what?"

His eyes met hers. "Your man."

Confusion melted to joy melted to fear. "John, we can't . . . _I_ can't commit . . ."

He swallowed back his disappointment. "I know." Gently he threaded his fingers through hers. "But I can, Elizabeth." His lips brushed hers. "I do." His light stubble grazed her cheek, his breath ruffling the hair draped over her ear. "And for me, for now, that's enough."

They stayed that way for a long time until her curiosity got the better of her. "So, what's the plan for the Albans?" She stood and studied the paper she'd unrolled on her desk.

"They don't do business on Worship Day, soooo . . . We're invited back. Tomorrow. For lunch."

**Chapter 2**

Elizabeth Weir shivered–she didn't know if it were from the aftereffects of gate travel or the autumn chill of Alba–and pulled her parka closer around her.

"You okay?" John Sheppard murmured softly, "you've seemed a little off this morning."

"Just tired," she dismissed his concern and plastered a diplomatic smile on her face. "Chieftain Stuart, how nice to meet you."

The Chieftain nodded in reply after hearing the translation then, through the bear-like interpreter, Arthros M'Gough, Bishop of Stuart, replied, "It is our pleasure to be of assistance."

Then he waved them to the vehicles which whizzed along the bumpy road, the wheels making the only noise. Weir tried to concentrate on the description of the countryside given by the Chief, but found herself having to think very hard about not retching on their host. Gate travel always made her queasy.

First came a celebratory meal–which, despite being quite tasty, did little to calm her stomach. Then came the lengthy negotiations–in which they received everything they requested and more.

"It is our pleasure to share the bounty of God's grace," Chieftain Haram Stuart said through the Bishop who leaned on his cambutta, his pastoral staff, as he affixed his signature and seal on the agreement beneath Weir's.

"We are most grateful," Weir replied through Doctor Carson Beckett.

"Then perhaps," the Bishop paused as bells tolled in the church tower two blocks away, "you will join us for vespers."

"And afterward," the Deaconess M'Gough continued as she entered the room and took her husband's arm, "a light meal before you return home."

Weir hesitated and Sheppard spoke up, "That would be very nice." The Chieftain offered Weir his arm, Sheppard extended his to the Deaconess while the Bishop scurried ahead–spryly for a man of his girth and yearsand disappeared into a side door of the church.

The Chieftain and Weir walked in silence but Sheppard indulged his curiosity. "Where did you learn English?"

The aging Deaconess smiled, as if from a pleasant memory. "The Bishop and I served many missionary parishes before we returned to Alba. He would pastor the fledgling congregation and I would serve as midwife. Most of our postings were to Anglish worlds so we learned the language early on."

The Chieftain growled amiably over his shoulder in their native tongue and the Deaconess replied with what seemed a joking rebuke. Both Sheppard and Weir crooked an eyebrow.

"Heathen that he is," the Deaconess explained, "the Chieftain questioned how effective Arthros' ministry could have been since we had ten children so I spent most of the time _in need of_ a midwife."

Elizabeth blushed and John Sheppard smirked. "_Be fruitful and multiply_ . . ." he joked.

The Deaconess paused at the foot of the stairs to the church. "You are a vulgar man, Major Sheppard," she rebuked. "It's no wonder you fit in so well here." A smile brightened her face and she guided them to the font before leading them to the front of the congregation near the chancel rail. There were no pews; the congregation stood throughout the service.

At first she found it soothing–the familiar liturgy, the candles, the incense. But as the service waned her knees liquified and a dark muzziness descended upon her.

"Elizabeth?" John Sheppard whispered desperately, scooping her into his arms before following the Deaconess down a corridor into a cell with a simple bed over which a cross hung.

"I'm fine," she protested weakly, trying to sit before dropping her head back on the snowy pillow. "Just tired . . ."

"I'll be the judge of that," Carson Beckett's cold fingers wrapped around her neck while his other hand pressed against her forehead. "You don't have a fever but you're pale and your heart is racing."

The old woman looked into Weir's eyes, felt under her chin. "Have you felt ill today, Dr. Weir?"

"No . . ."

"She hasn't kept anything down all day," John Sheppard corrected from his post in the corner. His eyes focused on his boss. "In fact, she's had trouble keeping her food down all week."

"She's probably dehydrated," Beckett surmised after pressing the skin of her hand.

But something in the old woman's face quirked. "And in need of food. Let's try raising her feet to ease the dizziness while I send one of the sisters to get her some tea and biscuits."

"She'll need something faster," Beckett warned. "Do you have any intravenous fluids?"

The Deaconess puzzled.

"It's liquid," the doctor explained, "usually made of water and salt, that you introduce into the blood with a hollow needle inserted in a large vessel."

"We haven't used those in some years," a wizened man croaked as he entered.

"Dr. Beckett," the Deaconess said, "this is Doctor Herbert, Dean of our Medical School and our personal physician."

The old physician nodded to the younger. "We use a pump that introduces the fluid through the skin in a non-invasive manner." From his bag he pulled a small device attached to a transparent bag of clear liquid. "This is a sterile solution of water and salt. With your permission, Doctor?"

Beckett hesitated a moment as he considered his woozy patient. "Go ahead," he agreed then turned to Sheppard. "We need to do this before we take her home, John," he explained.

Just about the time the Alban doctor had installed the pump, a younger version of the Deaconess deposited the tea and biscuits on the bedside table and left.

Almost immediately Weir seemed to brighten. She lolled her head, then opened her eyes, immediately finding the Major's worried gaze. She smiled sheepishly at him and he returned a jaunty grin.

"You frightened us, Elizabeth," Beckett scolded gently.

"I'm sorry to caused such an uproar," reluctantly, her gaze left the major and fixed on each of the others in turn. Weakly she tried to prop herself up and Beckett stuffed to pillows behind her. She took the tea the Deaconess offered and sipped it with a trembling hand while the doctors retreated to the corner to confer. The nun lingered at a discreet distance, not too close, but close enough to assist should the patient falter. Her eagle-eye saw all, the cringe at the flavor of the tea, the tremor as the biscuit was raised to still-pale lips, the careful swallowing, the fierce protectiveness of the man who'd never left her side.

"Is she alright?" he asked quietly.

"Major Sheppard, I'm fine," she lowered the teacup to her lap. "I just let myself get overtired."

The doctors and the Deaconess exchanged knowing glances.

Weir took another sip. "When may I go home?"

"Maybe tomorrow, Elizabeth," Carson Beckett began, but soon found how Elizabeth Weir earned her reputation as a skillful negotiator as they stumbled through the Atlantis side of the wormhole and he watched as John Sheppard installed her in the bed in her quarters.

"Sleep," Beckett ordered. "No work, no reports, only sleep. I'll be by to check on you in the morning and if you haven't rested you'll spend the day in the infirmary."

"Oh, she'll rest, doctor," Sheppard promised, casting a warning glance at the patient who scrunched lower in the bed as the soldier pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," the doctor let himself out.

With just a thought, Sheppard dimmed the lights to near-darkness, then slipped out of his jacket and draped it over the desk chair before returning to the bedroom. He sat on the foot of the bed and unlaced his boots then leaned over the patient after he'd peeled out of his shirt and undershirt. "Do you want to shower, Lizzie?"

A contented sigh was her reply. He propped himself on his arms and gazed at her, curled like a kitten under the soft sheets. With a smile he left her for the shower. When he, still steamy-wet, wrapped himself around her, she seemed to relax even more into him. Tugging her close, he let her warmth melt away the chilly dread he'd nurtured since her collapse, planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered, "Sweet dreams, milady."

**Chapter 3**

The morning dawned bright and when he opened his eyes, John Sheppard found Elizabeth Weir sitting at her desk reading.

"Oh, no, you don't," he threw back the sheets and marched towards her. "We promised Beckett."

"You promised Beckett," she corrected without looking up from the data pad.

"And I'm going to keep it," he held out his hand for the pad.

"John, I can't let these pile up . . ."

"Which is why you fainted on Alba," he waved for the pad. "Elizabeth, you've go to start taking care of yourself."

Her color flared, "I'm fine, John," but her color drained and she bolted for the bathroom. Sheppard followed her, holding back her hair and rubbing her back as she retched futilely. When she stood, he steadied her, guarding as she brushed her teeth. He met her weary gaze in the mirror then guided her with an insistent tug back to the bed.

He joined her, pulling her into his side with his right arm while the left smoothed her hair away from her face. He planted a kiss on top of her head, before taking a fortifying breath. "I can count, Lizzie."

She stiffened and swallowed hard. She scooted away from him, but he pulled her close again.

"If you're gonna dance, you gotta pay the piper," he joked.

She escaped to her desk and perched on the chair, knees held under her chin by clasped arms. Sheppard swung his legs off the side of the bed and propped his elbows on his knees, hands clasping and unclasping. "Look, I know this is unexpected."

She snorted mirthlessly.

"And we'll both have to make some changes . . ."

"No, we won't," she said sharply.

"Of course we will, Elizabeth," he reasoned. "We don't have a choice."

"Yes, we do." Her eyes were as gelid as her voice. "I do."

He paled.

"Elizabeth, please . . ."

"It's a mistake, John, and the sooner it's over with the better."

"A mistake?" he whispered vacantly, eyes dropping to the floor. Suddenly, he stood, dressing absently, moving clumsily to the door. "I have to get ready." He focused on a point over the door. "The team leaves for Alba in fifteen minutes." He half-turned his head toward her but not his eyes. "Beckett said he'd check on you later."

The portal opened and closed itself but not before he could hear her calling, "John!"

His quarters were only a corridor away and he didn't even remember getting there and his mind raced as he dressed. _You idiot, you knocked up your girlfriend like a teenager. You're a million miles from home and nearly forty years old and you knocked up your girlfriend who's also your boss but everything's gonna be okay because she's gonna have an abortion. _He glanced at his razor but left it behind as he stormed to the Armory. _What did you expect? You're a screw-up rotorhead and she's a freaking diplomat. She's way outta your league, flyboy. Expecting her to want your baby is like expecting a thoroughbred to foal a jackass._ He zipped up his vest and snapped the P-90 onto its hook before moving to the Jumper Bay. Slipping easily into his flyboy persona, he bantered and smirked his way into the pilot seat of the Puddle Jumper. A lifetime of training kicked in, and, for the good of the team and the mission, John Sheppard ruthlessly swallowed down his disappointment and locked away his sorrow. After the pre-flight checklist was completed, the Jumper lowered into the gate room and waited its go-flight.

"Good luck, Jumper One," Elizabeth Weir's voice on the comm broke the silence. "Come home soon."

Sheppard's eyes narrowed and his voice was devoid of emotion. "Roger, Atlantis. Jumper one out." He tightened the locks on his heart and threaded the needle to Alba.

"You're supposed to be in bed, Elizabeth," Carson Beckett scolded.

She leaned heavily against the balcony rail. "I just came to wish them well."

Gently, the doctor took her elbow and led her to the infirmary, helping her onto the examination table. He hummed and poked and prodded for fifteen minutes, disappeared for about ten, then returned with a smile. "You, young lady, are gonna have to start taking care of yourself. The baby . . ."

"It's a mistake," she interrupted flatly. "One best corrected as soon as possible."

The doctor stared at the doctor. "What does John say?" he finally asked.

"John doesn't get a say."

"So you and he aren't," he stammered but her expression confirmed his suspicion about the paternity. "Does he know?"

"It's a mistake, Carson," she insisted, "_my_ mistake and the sooner it's corrected the sooner things will get back to normal."

Words failed the loquacious doctor while a war waged inside him. His Catholic upbringing fought a losing battle against his Hippocratic oath until a memory, deep-buried and ugly reared its dark head. His voice turned cold. "No."

"Doctor . . ."

"I won't terminate the pregnancy without the father's permission."

Weir flushed, "The law says . . ."

"This isn't a legal matter." The physician crossed his arms.

"Carson, don't make me order you . . ."

"Order away, Elizabeth," he growled. "It's his child, too."

She glared at him but he ignored her. "John won't be back until tomorrow."

"Then you'll need these," he stepped around the corner then returned. "Vitamins," he held out a bottle and a tin, "and, from Mother M'Gough, tea for the morning sickness."

She wrapped her arms around herself tightly and he dangled the bag again.

"If not for the baby, Elizabeth . . ."

"It's not a baby," she cut him off.

His face flushed then went deadly pale. He tossed the medications on the bed then grasped her hand, turning the palm up his voice quiet but sharp. "Right now, at twelve weeks, your child is nearly six centimeters long." He marked the length on her palm with his own thumb and forefinger. "It has arms and legs, ten fingers and ten toes, maybe your eyes, John's smile and, if God is merciful, your ears."

A tear coursed down her cheek. "I haven't changed my mind, Doctor."

"And I haven't changed mine." He set the bottle and tin in her lap. "Talk to John," he ordered. Gently he helped her down from the bed then, never meeting her eyes, disappeared into his laboratory.

John Sheppard stood in the shadow of the bell-tower, ironic grin splitting his face_Hadn't stepped inside a church on Earth in fifteen years but . . ._ –as he climbed the steps turned golden by the setting sun. He'd left Lieutenant Ford supervising the loading of the food stores onto pallets that would carry the load back to Atlantis. He was drawn here; he didn't want to examine his motivation too closely, though. The narthex was dark and chilly and he prowled around, searching for tell-tale doors or curtains or screens.

"Maybe I help you?"

Sheppard swung around, sheepishly startled, and faced a priest just a few years older than himself. "Um," he paused, "confessional?"

"The Alban Kirk doesn't require the confession of sins to a priest for absolution, but if you need someone to talk to I'm about to take a walk in the kirk garden. We could talk there."

Sheppard hesitated.

"Pastoral counseling is the successor to the confessional in our practice and its contents are just as sacred–and confidential." The churchman walked toward a small door then stopped, his hand on the knob. "The garden is a lovely place at the close of a day–even in autumn. Come see for yourself." He pushed the door open and Sheppard could see shrubs, carefully maintained. Pushing aside caution, he followed, strolling beside the priest on a gravel path.

"Major John Sheppard, is it?"

Sheppard had the eerie sense of deja vu. "How did you?"

"Angus M'Gough," the cleric swabbed at his bare forehead.

"As in Bishop and Deaconess M'Gough?"

"Aye, the Bishop and the Deaconess are my parents," the priest said sardonically.

"That must have been a drag, growing up."

"It had its moments," the cleric wore the traditional cassock, but the cut was much more tailored than his father's. He clasped his hands behind his back–as though at parade rest, which made him lean forward a bit as he walked. "But my father was a missionary to many worlds, so I was able to travel, to be a part of many cultures." He stopped, faced his companion, half-shaved head shining in the sunset. "Of course I swore I'd never become a priest." John chuckled with the narrator. "But God had other ideas. I was called to the mission field–like my father." Sheppard nodded. "How did you come to be a soldier?"

Sheppard followed the path again, eyes not really focused, "Had nothing else to be."

M'Gough studied his companion. "Has it served you?"

Sheppard thought a long moment. "Yeah, it has," he said, seemingly surprised at his own answer.

"So what brings you in search of a confessional?" the priest prodded.

Sheppard walked for several minutes, brows knitted as he composed his thoughts. "I wasn't observant back home, so _He's_ probably laughing pretty big right now . . ." he deflected.

"At what?" the priest encouraged.

Sheppard continued his amble. "There's this woman," he glanced at the priest who merely nodded for him to continue. "We . . . we're, um . . ."

"Together?"

"Yes," Sheppard ran his hand through a soft-looking bush. "And she's . . . we're . . ."

"With child?"

Sheppard blushed scarlet. "You don't seemed shocked," he continued when his color had cooled a bit.

The priest smiled wistfully, "Do you love her, John? This woman."

Sheppard stopped, studied a bug crawling on a fallen leaf, before meeting the priest's gaze. "I do, Father."

"And does she love you?" he asked gently.

The major turned, faced shadowed now. "I thought she did," he whispered, then scowled at himself because he sounded like a pock-faced boy.

"And the child?"

Sheppard shook his head, as a tear slid down his cheek. "She doesn't want it."

"And you do."

"Yes, I do, Father."

Lieutenant Ford's voice crackled over the radio. "Major Sheppard?"

Sheppard turned toward the loading area, even though it was out of sight. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."

"We're almost ready, sir. We can go back tonight."

"Good job, Lieutenant. Prepare for departure." He checked his watch. "I'll be there in fifteen. Sheppard out."

He faced the cleric, the words of his heart forestalled by his head.

"You must talk to her, John."

"I know, but it's probably too late."

Their journey had taken them back to the church. The narthex was dark now, except for candleglow from a niche in the chapel. The soldier stopped at the door and dipped his fingers in the font before crossing himself. He walked slowly to the rail before genuflecting and kneeling for a moment. Crossing himself again, he walked to the niche and lit a candle. Tears glistened on his cheeks in the flickering candlelight. Softly he exited the chapel, again facing the priest.

"Is the candle for you, your friend or the child?"

Sheppard glanced back at the niche. "It's for us all, Father."

"Go in peace, John."

He left the sanctuary and returned to his ship, to Atlantis–his soul somewhat lighter but his heart still heavy as a stone.

**Chapter 4**

Elizabeth Weir punched her pillow, trying unsuccessfully to make it comfortable enough for sleep. Truth be told, there was nothing wrong with the pillow; John Sheppard's shoulder was just more comfortable. She fought her own pillow a moment more then, on a frustrated hunch, she exchanged her pillow for his and, infuriatingly, she immediately relaxed. His scent, indescribable and intoxicating, permeated her so completely that her eyes fell closed and sleep blanketed her–until she felt the gate rumble to life. She rolled into her shoes, nearly running into the too-slow door, stuffing her arms into her robe as she ran to the control room. "What's wrong, Peter?"

Peter looked as calm as she felt shaken. "Nothing," he explained. "The mission to Alba was completed ahead of schedule and is returning." The Puddle Jumper eased through the gate and rose into its bay, followed by several pallets of food.

"Well done, Major Sheppard, Lieutenant Ford."

Only Lieutenant Ford acknowledged, "Thank you, Ma'am."

Her brow furrowed and she moved quickly to the Jumper Bay, bumping into the departing Ford.

"He's already gone, Ma'am," Ford said uncomfortably.

"Thank you," she murmured and didn't find him in the armory, didn't find him in her quarters. She did find him in his, steam puffing from the bathroom. The Ancients hadn't bothered with modesty and neither did he–no shower curtain to hide the view before her. His back was to her and he faced the shower head, arms propped in a vee on adjoining walls. The water pounded his back and the back of his neck while his chin rested on his chest. He stood a long time that way–until he cocked one ear toward the door. "What do you want, Elizabeth?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay since . . ."

"I'm fine," he lathered and rinsed quickly, then dried and wrapped the damp towel around his waist before brushing past her and collapsing into a heavily-upholstered chair, knees defiantly akimbo. "Are you okay?" he asked and she nodded. "Then cut to the chase, Dr. Weir."

She sat in the chair opposite him. "John, we need to talk . . ."

"Did you go see Beckett today?"

"Yes, I did . . ."

"It's been a long and monumentally shitty day, doctor." He moved to the bed, discarding the towel before slipping beneath the sheets. "You can see yourself out." The lights went out but she remained.

"He wouldn't do the procedure," she fished for the correct word and he snorted at her choice, "without your consent."

The lights came on quarter-strength and revealed him leaning against the headboard, knees tenting the sheet and his arms draped across his knees. "I haven't changed my mind, Elizabeth. I want it all–you and me and baby makes three."

It was every little girl's dream–the handsome, daring guy; two-point-three apple-cheeked babies; and quaint little cottage with a white picket fence. She almost succumbed to it. But John Sheppard wasn't Ward, she wasn't June and they were a long, long way from Morning Glory Lane. "I haven't changed my mind either, John."

His heart broke right then, she saw it right in front of her, smashed into a thousand shards. But, just as quickly, his eyes turned cold, his face hard. "You'll have my report first thing in the morning."

"John . . ."

"Good night, Dr. Weir." The light extinguished.

She waited a long moment, hoping he'd speak, but left. She paused in the door, light from the corridor slicing through the darkness to reveal him, still sitting, but his face buried in his hands. For an instant he looked at her, his face wet, grief overflowing before the hall light switched off. She stepped into the corridor and it became bright again. Forcing herself not to look back she returned to her own quarters. They felt silent, cold and empty–which was never the case when he was there–so she cocooned herself in the seemingly huge bed and sobbed to the depths of her soul, overwhelmed by the empty silence that filled her the instant she watched his love for her die.

"Don't you ever sleep, Peter?" It was just after five when he sauntered into Operations.

"It doesn't feel like it, Major," the gate technician smiled, then frowned, "and from the looks of it, neither do you."

"Gatelag," Sheppard quipped. "I sent you an IDC for today's arrival."

"Yes, sir. . ."

"Let me know when they get here," he ordered but didn't wait for an answer. He set off on an expedition–one he'd lain awake all night planning when he wasn't planning how he would avoid seeing Elizabeth–that took him to a more "residential" section of the city. Quarters here were larger, more rooms, and each had windows and balconies. There was one particular compartment he sought–he'd spotted it on an earlier expedition–that was situated so that sunlight flooded it at rise and set. He mapped it in his mind as he ambled from room to room, mentally noting the many amenities and few shortcomings. Once he had it in his mind, he stepped onto the balcony, light's first tendrils brightening the horizon as he sat leaning back against the window, hands dangling from propped-up knees.. The aroma of coffee reached him and he held out a ready hand for the steaming cup. "Awful early for a house call, Dr. Beckett." He savored the heat but not the taste of the brew.

"A physician goes when and where he's needed, my friend," he slurped from his mug.

"And how did you know when and where you were needed?"

"Magic," Beckett swirled the mug and Sheppard smiled mirthlessly.

"Then conjure me a way out of this mess, Great Wizard."

"Would that I could, John; would that I could."

They sat in silence until the sun peeked over the horizon, washing them in gold.

Sheppard rested his head against the glass, eyes closed, until Beckett thought he'd fallen asleep. "Why'd you do it, Carson? Why did you say you needed my consent?"

Beckett studied the golden waves for over a minute. "Because nobody did it for me."

A bird floated in the distance, then darted to the surface, rising again with something wiggling in its beak.

"If I say yes, I lose my child," Sheppard said softly. "If I say no, I lose Elizabeth."

"And probably the child, as well," Beckett warned. "I'm not the only doctor in the Pegasus galaxy, John."

"So, either way, I roll craps." He set his mug on the floor and scrubbed his hands over his face. With a groan he stood, walked toward the water and propped his elbows on the rail, hands clasped over the water. "The smart thing would be to say yes; salvage what I can with Elizabeth," he mused out loud.

Beckett stood but remained against the window.

"But nobody's ever accused me of being smart." The rail trembled, and the ground, and Sheppard turned.

"The gate," Beckett murmured and Sheppard nodded, striding purposefully toward his post but Beckett gently clasped his shoulder. "What do you want, John?"

Sheppard stopped, eyes and mind finally clear. "I want it all, Beckett." He smiled with determination. "The answer's no."

They, Beckett and Sheppard, found Elizabeth Weir in the control room with a confused look on her face. "Of course you're always welcome," she stammered, "we just weren't expecting you. Why did you say you were here?"

"Sister M'Gough is the new midwife," Beckett explained to Weir while chattering with the new arrivals in their native tongue.

"For the Athosians," Sheppard explained when Weir's confused look did not abate. "Article twenty-eight of the Alban Accord?" Weir's confusion continued. "And they agreed to send a priest–Father M'Gough, here–along with their family," he explained further.

Father M'Gough bowed slightly. "We appreciate the opportunity to serve God in your community, Dr. Weir."

"You're welcome," she turned to her crew, "Dr. Beckett, Major Sheppard, a word please?"

They began to follow her into her office when the communications officer interrupted, "Dr. Beckett, Teyla requests your help with a difficult delivery."

"That would be Moyla," Beckett surmised, then turned to the newcomers. "You're just in time, Sister. There's a birthing on the mainland that requires your attention."

"Can you take us there?" the midwife asked.

"I'll fly you," Sheppard offered even though Beckett could have handled it alone since it furthered his just-now-hatched Avoiding Elizabeth Weir For As Long As Possible plan.

"John? Carson?" Weir sputtered but they were long gone and she was left in the control room wondering just when she'd lost control of this particular situation.

The flight to the mainland was short and Beckett and the midwife and her daughter disappeared immediately to begin their duties leaving Sheppard with Father M'Gough and five adolescents.

The priest issued a friendly growl to the youths and they immediately began gathering wood, long limbs and clearing off a large area. "What kind of weather can we expect for the next few days, Major?" the priest directed the young people by pointing, waving and, occasionally, barking (at least that was the sound of it).

"Hovering close to freezing at night, cool during the day," Sheppard replied, "unless the wind whips up."

The priest nodded, "Then let us hope it doesn't." He dragged a heavy bag from the Jumper and pulled out a series of poles and stacks of folded fabric.

"We have quarters for you in the city," Sheppard offered when he realized the family was setting up a tent.

The priest smiled. "We thank you, Major, but my wife would not leave her patient so soon after a birthing." He offered Sheppard one end of the large section, pulling away from each other while the younger children propped it up with poles and the two older boys drove stakes and strung ropes.

"You look like you've done this before." The Major smiled at the youngest child, a girl with freckles.

"Aye," the priest confirmed, "this is our eighth . . ."

"Ninth, papa," the oldest boy–young man, really–corrected between hammer blows on the stakes.

"Ninth," the priest nodded thanks to his oldest son, "mission since Rhianna and I married nearly twenty anni ago." After a few minutes the tent looked almost liveable. "Kael?" the missionary called to the next oldest young man, "will you and Tiergan and Brogan and Kern finish with the tent while Donagh and the Major and I look for a location for the kirk?"

"Aye, papa," the boys replied in unison and continued with the encampment.

"Donagh, would you investigate that hillock? It looks large enough for a small chapel."

"Aye, papa," the young man said knowingly, but dutifully fulfilling his father's request.

"Fancy meeting you here," Sheppard said after they'd walked a ways. "I don't remember your being the name of the family coming here."

M'Gough feigned innocence, "God moves in mysterious ways . . ."

"God and the Bishop," Sheppard said slyly, "or was it you?"

The priest smiled sheepishly. "I told my father I was needed here to attend to the concerns of one of my parishioners."

"And just how big is your parish?" Sheppard needled.

"Well, there's you . . ."

Sheppard laughed out loud.

M'Gough folded down his fingers as he counted. "And, possibly Beckett, unless he's a pagan, and . . ."

"God must hate you with a start like that." Sheppard taunted.

"It's been my experience that God has a sense of humor, which he proved when he called me."

"You're not like any priest I've ever known."

The cleric thought for a moment. "I didn't set out to be one–a priest. I set out to be a carpenter. And then I met Rhianna, and I obeyed the call and we joined the Order of the Culdee."

"Order of the Culdee?"

"Missionaries. We live among the people, offering friendship and the sacraments to those who want it."

The young man waved to them from a hill and they followed the gently sloping path upward. It was wide and flat and offered a view of the ocean as well as the continent. "Well done, Donagh."

"It's almost like being in the air," Sheppard agreed.

They found a log and sat, gazing toward the ocean. "And how is your dilemma, John?" he asked when the young man had wandered back toward the camp.

Suddenly, the soldier was restless. "The same," he replied. "I'm trying to avoid her as long as possible."

"Do you think this wise?"

"Probably not," Sheppard conceded, "but it gives me more time to construct my argument.

"And it gives her . . ." he held out his hand for the name.

"Elizabeth," Sheppard supplied.

"It gives Elizabeth more time to construct hers, as well," the priest punctuated his observation with his hand, "eliminating any tactical advantage gained by waiting."

"Damn," Sheppard cursed, then blushed. "Sorry."

"But you knew this already," the priest met Sheppard's neutral gaze. "You're avoiding the discussion because you fear the outcome."

Sheppard was silent but not still, rubbing his palms together as he pondered his problem.

"The longer you wait, the worse it becomes," the priest advised. "Talk to her, John."

**Chapter 5**

It was late by the time he returned from the mainland and he stowed his gear and staggered wearily to his quarters, not even bothering with the light.

"How's Moyla?" Elizabeth's voice pierced the darkness.

He willed the lights to half and found her, lying on the bed, dressed in pajamas, robe and slippers.

"A boy," he answered quietly, "mother and son doing fine."

"Good," she nodded, eyes heavy as the silence that separated them.

"Elizabeth . . ."

"John . . ." they spoke simultaneously.

"You first," they said in unison, then paused with a smirk.

"Ladies first," Sheppard offered and she accepted with a smile. He pulled a chair next to the bed and propped his sock-feet beside hers.

"I've been composing this for hours and, now that you're here, I don't remember a word," she confessed.

"It's not often I find you speechless," he teased.

"I'm not," she argued, sitting up. "I just don't know where to begin." She gathered her courage. "John, we can't . . ."

"Why not?"

"Because . . ."

"That's cogent."

"Well," she sputtered, "you're the military commander; you're my subordinate."

His feet hit the floor and he leaned forward. "That's an excuse, Elizabeth."

"No, John," her eyes flashed, "it's the truth. And it's policy; I know you don't like policy very much . . ."

"Especially when it makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense, John. Imagine the disorder if people knew we were having a baby . . ."

"As opposed to the disorder of when they knew we were sleeping together?"

She quirked her head, "Nobody knew."

"The only nights we've spent apart in the past six months have been when one or both of us were deployed," he ridiculed. "It's a small base, Lizzie. _Everybody_ knows."

She blanched. "This is different. This is . . ."

"Obvious?" he whispered and she nodded. He took several deep breaths and when he spoke again his voice was flat. "I don't think I truly understood the meaning for the non-fraternization regs until now."

"John . . ."

Quietly, he stood and held out his hand to help her up. Taking her elbow, he steadied her before escorting her wordlessly to her quarters. The door opened and he guided them both inside.

"Do what you need to do about the baby," he croaked. "But you'll do it against my wishes."

The door whooshed and she was alone. She asked the silence, "Just what am I supposed to do?" The answer came as she re-read Article Twenty-Eight of the Alban Accord. It took several days for her to hop a Jumper to the mainland that didn't also contain John Sheppard, but, one week later, she found herself in the presence of the Alban midwife.

"I find myself in a somewhat embarrassing situation, Sister Rhianna." She glanced at her hands folded on her already-diminishing lap. "But, I suppose John's told you already."

"I have eyes of my own." The woman wore a scarf rather than a wimple.

Weir's eyes widened, "Is it that obvious?"

"No." The nun's sturdy hands folded towels. "Why are you here? You have a perfectly capable physician in Dr. Beckett."

Weir swallowed. "I don't want the baby."

The midwife didn't even flinch. "I'm sure we can find a family who . . ."

"No," Weir corrected. "I don't want to _have_ the baby."

The midwife's hands stilled. "Why not?"

"John and I," Weir relaced her hands, "it's just not appropriate."

"Was your relationship any more appropriate?"

Weir reddened.

The midwife's tone was shorter, more businesslike. "Was the child conceived in a consensual act?"

Weir nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"Then I cannot accommodate your request. If the child's father does not wish to raise it, there are many families on Alba–or many other worlds, for that matter–who long for the warmth of a child in their arms, Dr. Weir."

"You don't approve of my choice," Weir said quietly.

The midwife continued her folding. "It isn't my place to approve or disapprove."

"But you don't understand," Elizabeth studied her hands, her belly bulging slightly into her lap.

"It wasn't the choice I made," the sister shrugged.

Weir cocked an eyebrow.

"Angus and I," she grinned sheepishly, "_'anticipated_' our vows, as Mother Glynna put it so discreetly."

"That must have been embarrassing," Weir observed.

"More for his parents than for us," Rhianna admitted. "We knew were already bound by our hearts, so any words we pledged before men were just for show. We married, had Donagh, Kael, Tiergan, Brogan, Kern and Roswyn and here we are, twenty years later."

"It sounds so idyllic," Elizabeth sighed, "almost like a dream."

Rhianna snorted, "At times, it felt like a nightmare." Her face darkened slightly. "Twenty years of starting over at every new post; of agues and fevers; but, God has provided and we've come this far together."

"Have you ever considered . . ."

"Not having the child?" the midwife finished for Weir. "Every time."

"Then, why did you?"

The older woman's eyes crinkled, "Because, Angus M'Gough is the most infuriating man I've ever met. Because when he smiles, his eyes sparkle like a rascally child. Because he practices his faith with his hands and not just his words. And," she flushed shyly, "because his touch inflames me more now than it did when we made Donagh."

Weir studied the woman, the flush of passion brought on by just the mention of her husband. "I envy you that."

"I doubt you have reason to be envious of anyone," the midwife badgered. "I would expect John could be quite enviable."

It was Weir's turn to blush and the midwife grinned while her hands continued their folding. "Which is precisely why I'm in this predicament."

"That's not why and you know it."

"I don't understand."

"You're not a child, Elizabeth," the midwife arched an eyebrow, "and I don't imagine you came into the relationship a vestal so the physical charms of a man such as John Sheppard would have been tempting, but not nearly enough to risk this." She stored the towels in a trunk and turned, hands on her sturdy hips. "So, why, exactly, are you in this predicament?"

**Chapter 6**

"I'm sorry, Beckett, but I cannot take menu advice from a man whose national dish involves barley and the reused stomach of a sheep," McKay groused while shoveling another forkful of the evening meal into his mouth. The other occupants of the communal eating area seemed to ignore the show.

"You are a tasteless ingrate," the doctor replied. "The grain and vegetables from Alba have been a real boon to our diet."

"Are you sure you've not confused boon and bane?" McKay retorted around another bite. "It all tastes like dirty mashed potatoes."

"Better to offend your delicate taste buds than starve, Dr. McKay," Ford joined the fray.

John Sheppard ignored the conversation long enough to replace his tray in the rack and stride down the hall to his office. It was already occupied and the occupant popped to attention at his foot fall.

"Sergeant Vasquez," he greeted a compact Marine, waving the young man to relax his stance.

"Major Sheppard."

After a silent moment, "Something I can do for you, Sergeant Vasquez?"

The young man licked his lips nervously.

"Sergeant?"

"According to Marine Corps regulations, I have to ask my commanding officer for permission to marry," the young man proffered a hand-written sheet which Sheppard scanned.

"Wedding date day after tomorrow," Sheppard noted, "what's your rush, Sergeant?"

The young man flushed furiously, relaxed when the major nodded his understanding.

"So, who's the lucky girl?"

"Ashree, daughter of Malem."

Sheppard grinned, "Athosian? No wonder you're sweating."

"Yes, sir."

He considered teasing the Marine a bit longer, but sentiment got the better of him. "Permission granted," he leaned over his desk, applied pen to the paper.

"Thank you, sir," the young man sighed. "I knew you'd understand."

Sheppard offered his hand, "Congratulations, Marine."

The young man shook his hand and scurried out, narrowly missing the doctor.

"Dr. Beckett?" he waved the Scotsman inside. "Is there something in the water?"

Beckett's brows knit.

"Just how many expectant personnel do we have on this installation?"

"Women only or male personnel with Athosians?" the doctor stalled.

"Both."

"I can't name names, John . . ."

"You can to me," Sheppard warned.

"Well," the Scotsman hesitated, "there's Elizabeth, of course; but you knew that."

"I'm painfully aware of that, Beckett. Quit stalling and give."

The doctor frowned, "You know about Vasquez, and there's Drs. Marcum and Mkembe."

"With whom?"

"Marcum and Mkembe? Each other."

Sheppard slumped into his chair. "How is this happening, Beckett?"

"Well, John, when a man and a woman . . ."

"I know that part," Sheppard retorted. "How many?"

"Five," Beckett replied, "and water has nothing to do with it. Well, in your case, possibly . . ."

Time moved slowly when you waited, Elizabeth Weir mused as she absently scratched her belly through her pajamas as she read yet another food consumption report while propped up by pillows in her bed. The pillow behind her had been John's for the past six months and she relaxed back into its comforting scent.

This morning she had awakened, blessedly sans nausea, but completely unprepared for what greeted her in the mirror: her belly, round, soft and definitely _there_. She'd been able to hide it beneath the jackets she wore against the chill of Atlantis but John had noticed. Nothing could hide the sad mixture of hope and hurt that swirled in his eyes when he'd first seen how her red shirt strained about the waist. He'd been distantly solicitous–discreetly taking her elbow on steps, bringing her drinks, reminding her to eat and to rest when she forgot. She found herself looking forward to the snippets of conversation they'd have between briefings, longing for the irresistible little-boy smile he'd flash her way when he'd been infuriating, aching for the comfort of waking in his arms, burning for the fire of his touch.

But she'd screwed that up by getting pregnant. What would Simon think? What would her parents think? What would her colleagues think? Simon would be hurt, but would, in the end be reasonable. Her parents would be upset but would, in the end, enjoy the grandchild they'd been hinting for. Her colleagues would quirt her a bit, but would, in the end, accept her choice. It was all so reasonable, so civilized, so lifeless.

Unlike John. He'd not left it all up to her. He'd pursued her, wooed her, and won her with wit and charm and, surprisingly, raw honesty.

_I love you_, he'd whispered as they'd first joined, _"beautiful, brilliant, passionate, mine."_ He'd growled the lasteyes, body, _heart_, locked with hers. And she'd accepted it, enjoyed it, even if she could not reciprocate. Until now.

Disregarding the late hour, she made her way to the infirmary, spurred on by the mental image of a clear-eyed son with unmanageable hair and unbreakable spirit. "I'm sorry about the hour, Carson," she apologized when the physician appeared with bleary eyes and rumpled clothing.

"Are you all right, Elizabeth?" he squinted against the light.

"I'm out of vitamins," she explained.

He blinked several times, then broke into a huge grin. He held up one finger, disappeared.

"And some of that tea if you have it."

Still smiling her returned with the medications. "Are you sure, Elizabeth?"

"It's my _choice_, Carson."

The Scotsman scooped her into a tight hug. "Congratulations, lassie."

"Unscheduled off-world activation," klaxons blared and she bolted for the Control Room, literally running into Rodney McKay on the way.

John Sheppard was already in the room, face crestfallen. "It's a message from the Albans: _The remnant await your return._"

She swayed, the room swayed, and she felt herself being lowered into a chair. John Sheppard kneeled in front of her, his arms caging her on the armrests. "My team leaves in five," he said quietly, "we'll let you know what we find."

She cupped his cheek, then spread one of his hands across her stomach, "Come back to us."

He replied by pulling her into a kiss that took her breath away. She was barely aware of his leaving, not noticing his calling out, "Rodney?" and pointing to her.

McKay nodded, accepting the precious responsibility given him by his friend. The jumper lowered and disappeared through the gate. Within the hour they had the news, "The Wraith." Scientists, engineers, soldiers–all formed teams that stepped through the gate. Though Sheppard had sent specific instructions for her to remain on Atlantis, Weir joined them.

"I told you to stay home," Sheppard scolded.

"It's my place to be here, John," she explained wearily. "How many lived?"

He squinted, surveying the horizon around the gate. "Roughly ten percent of the population–mostly people our age and younger. They hid out in caves and catacombs."

"The Bishop?" she inquired but he shook his head.

He led her to one of the vehicles. "The new government's already in place. All that's left is to gather up the bodies."

For four days they gathered, moving the dead to the open square outside the desecrated church. Tirelessly they worked, finding and identifying the desiccated bodies, the clergy–ordained and lay both–issuing the Extreme Unction. Originally, Weir had worked at the church, but, as the square filled, she began joining units in the field, looking for victims–Sheppard had strictly ordered that she was not to lift any of the sickeningly light remains. On the fourth day, the third day of the Alban week, she stopped cold in the reeds by a river.

"Elizabeth?" McKay called; he was her assigned watchdog that day, succeeding days by Sheppard, Teyla and Ford.

Mutely, she fell to her knees, picking up something from the grasses and clutching it to her chest.

McKay kneeled beside her. "Elizabeth?"

She rocked back and forth, her eyes never leaving the precious content of her arms–an infant, what had once been one, skin now parchment, but tufts of unruly black hair ruffled in the breeze. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her face as she rocked, clutching the dead child all the closer.

McKay summoned Sheppard and he took his place by her side, sitting on the ground and lifting her–and the child–into his lap.

"We should help him," she looked into his eyes, her voice childlike.

"It's too late for him," Sheppard replied gently and Elizabeth rocked harder. He whispered it again and she gave him the child, whom he passed to McKay. For a long time they sat, silent, shaking, until he stood and pulled her into his side. "She's gotta get outta here," Sheppard explained to McKay, who nodded. "I'll be back in the morning." They walked to the gate, through it, and through the corridors of Atlantis.

"This isn't your quarters," she observed flatly as the door swished shut.

"It is now," Sheppard explained, leading her directly to the bath. Undressing both of them in silence, he pulled her under the warm spray. Tenderly, he lathered and rinsed her matted hair, soaped and sprayed her body then his own. She stood mutely as he pulled her to the bed, then slid in behind her. Her skin was clammy, she shivered, and drew into herself before falling into a fitful sleep.

It was still dark when he felt her stir, then thrash, then heard her scream. "Lizabeth?" he pulled her into his arms. "You're safe."

But her eyes were wild. "It'll never be safe, John," she pulled away. "They'll hunt it and kill it for being our child." He grasped her wrists but she struggled to free herself. "We can't do that," she pummeled his chest, "we can't bring a child into this chaos just so it can die like those children on Alba." Silently he bore her rage until she was spent.

"Is that why you didn't want it?" he asked, finally.

She nodded.

He sat up, stacked the pillows behind him, then pulled her back, half-sitting. "Why didn't you say something?" He pulled her closer, "Why did you let me think . . ."

"Think what?" she slipped her arm across his chest but sat up when he didn't reply, "Think what, John?"

He just closed his eyes and shook his head. "Think you were embarrassed by the baby."

"Well, I was, just a bit, but . . ."

"No, Elizabeth, I thought you were embarrassed about it being _my_ baby," a lifetime of insecurity darkened his eyes.

"John Sheppard, that it was your baby was the best part." She pulled him close and he pressed a kiss into the crown of her head. The waves lapped at the balcony and he reached to the bedside table and the curtains parted to reveal the first harbingers of dawn. They gazed at it, enlaced with each other until the room turned gold with the morning sun.

"I want to go today," she whispered but he continued studying the emerging day. "I'll be okay, John," she promised, "as long as you are with me."

"I'll be with you," he vowed, drawing circles on his arm. "It's Ash Wednesday."

"Will there be services?"

He nodded.

"Since when did you become such a good Catholic?" she teased.

He soughed. "Since I made a baby with the woman I love."

They continued the sad day as they had begun it, side-by-side, through the mass cremation of the victims, until the Ash Wednesday Mass.

"Each of us has a personal understanding of the depths of sorrow this day," began Angus M'Gough, who'd succeeded his father as Bishop. "And it would be easy to succumb to it." He wiped away his own tears. "But, in their final moments, my parents left us a testament to the way they would like for us to remember those who've gone before us. We found my parents in the dry land, side by side, rosary in hand. Now, I would have expected to find them with their daily rosaries, but they clutched in their hands the Psalter. In the Psalter I would have expected them to have been reciting the Shepherd's Psalm, but they were not. In their final moments, at the time of their final breaths, they were reciting the words of the Nineteenth Psalm and praising the God into whose bosom they were being welcomed. Can I do any less in the days He's given me?"

That night, bodies and hearts enlaced as they watched from their bed as the moon rose, Sheppard sighed, hard, and pulled Elizabeth so close he could feel her heart beating. "I never believed in a benevolent God, really, until now."

She propped her head on her elbow, eyebrows arched, "Why not?"

"Because," he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "I've spent my life knowing I would pay for my sins."

"But you've changed your mind?"

"God can't be too mad at me." He grinned and wrapped his hand around her hip tugging until only the bulge coddling their child was between them. "He sent me you."

**Chapter 7**

Spring warmed into summer and summer cooled into autumn. Constant, though, was the fire between them, John and Elizabeth, and the light it put into their faces. As she grew he grew more protective and more cautious. No longer reckless, he still suffered from his frequent bouts of valor–which put her at his bedside more than once. But they came to peace with their roles, as much as they could, so that, when they were alone, the mantles of soldier and leader were left outside their sunny home, and they could celebrate wholeheartedly their love and the life to be borne of it.

It was early fall when he was summoned back through the gate, the midwife's scowl–Deaconess Rhianna M'Goughhis greeting when he nearly ran into their haven. All day and into the night Elizabeth labored, intensely, painfully until, with the first rays of light in the Atlantean dawn a lusty cry signalled the birthing of his–their–son. When the dawn painted his family pale gold, he offered up his prayer of thanks, both for forgiveness and for the family entrusted into his care.

They observed, as best as possible given their positions, the Athosian custom of cloistering the mother and child for thirty days. He performed his duties with vigor and energy then hurried home, eyes silly with wonder as he watched his lady, his wife in truth, suckle their child. A peace would wash over him at those times, a peace he'd sought for as long as he could remember.

On the thirty-first day they emerged from their dwelling–their love had converted simple rooms into a home–and joined a small group that journeyed to the main land. A rustic stone building–the Atlantis Kirk of the Alban Ritestood atop a hill overlooking both land and sea. Young Donagh M'Gough greeted them at the door, his equally young Athosian bride already blooming with child.

"Congratulations," the vicar bid the new parents, who beamed pride and joy.

"And to you," Elizabeth nodded and the missionary blushed scarlet.

They found a place on the front pew–little more than a bench–stepping to the font when called, cuddling their son when the anointing water startled him. A celebration followed in their home, with food and Athosian ale and Alban wine. After a while, the child fell asleep, as did Elizabeth, and the guests dwindled. In the golden afternoon sun, John Sheppard leaned against the rail of his balcony, gazing at his family. "Thank you," he said quietly to his companion.

"For what?" Carson Beckett burred.

Sheppard inclined his head toward his family and Beckett nodded an acknowledgment.

"He would have been nearly fifteen now," Beckett drew long at his glass of ale, tears coursing down his cheeks. "I wonder what he would have been like . . ."

John Sheppard studied his friend. "He would have been intelligent, caring and courageous," he replied, "just like his father."

Beckett's wet eyes met his for a moment then he nodded. He brushed the tears from his face. "To our children," he raised his glass and Sheppard joined him.

"To our children."


End file.
